


a girl who uses a machete to cut through red tape

by amethystsarah



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amethystsarah/pseuds/amethystsarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, so Felicity might have a better credit score than she <i>really</i> should have, especially considering how often she shops at Anthropologie, but whatever. She deserves some perks, okay?</p><p>Or, navigating the ups and downs of joining a team of crime-fighting vigilantes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a girl who uses a machete to cut through red tape

**Author's Note:**

> This was just gathering dust in my drafts folder so I figured, well, why not? It's very short and more of a collection of snapshots than anything else but I wanted to post it anyway. 
> 
> Title from CAKE's song Short Skirt/Long Jacket, because I am absolutely incapable of not using song lyrics as titles.

The first week of being Oliver’s Executive Assistant, Felicity barges into his office. “I turned down an offer from Google to work here!” she says, agitated. “Google! Did you know they have coffee on tap in their offices?”

Oliver looks bemused—Felicity would laugh if she wasn’t so sure she’d start crying instead—and protests mildly, “We have coffee here too.”

“It’s not the same,” she says, sinking into the chair by his desk. The leather is smooth and cool to the touch. Even the chairs at Queen Consolidated are expensive.

“No,” Oliver says, “it’s not,” and there’s something in his voice that she might call an apology, that she might call guilt, but she won’t.

He’s trying. So is she. They make it work. 

* * *

Felicity’s a little dizzy and the adrenaline has left her shaky. Of course, the shakiness could also be attributed to her sprained ankle. Her ankle’s too swollen to be anything _but_ sprained and the last time Felicity tried to stand, she remembered how low her pain threshold actually was. Working with vigilantes on a daily basis has definitely given her an inflated idea of how much pain a normal person can stand without Tylenol.

More to the point though, her shoes are ruined. And, like, okay, there’s a little thought in the back of Felicity’s head telling her that she should be more concerned with the muffled gunfire in the background, but these were her _favorite_ work heels. It’s seriously hard to find three-inch pumps that are comfortable as well as pretty. Plus, they had these cute little straps across the top with small gold buckles—

Well, the point is, now that Felicity’s an Executive Assistant she can’t exactly wear her panda flats to work. And since one of the heels of her pumps has broken off—which, now that she thinks about it, is probably what caused the sprained ankle—her shoes are officially ruined.

Before Felicity can even contemplate trying to stand up again, Diggle finds her. He takes one look at her and kneels down, wrapping an arm around her waist so that she can stand up and still keep most of her weight off her ankle.

“Were you planning on throwing that heel at someone if they pointed a gun at you?” he asks. There’s a bit of reproach in his voice but under that she can hear the worry.

“You try to outrun bad guys in three-inch heels,” Felicity retorts. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that it's extremely impractical, not to mention bordering on basically impossible.

Digg raises an eyebrow at her, a slight smile tugging at his lips. He helps her walk, which requires a mixture of awkward maneuvering and hopping. It’s not by any means elegant. “Believe me, Felicity,” he says, “I’d much rather leave the three-inch heels to you.”

“Wise decision,” she says, grinning. She can feel the exhaustion tugging at her, the pulses of pain radiating up from her ankle to the rest of her body. Smiling right now feels a lot like a victory.

They go and find Oliver.  

* * *

Felicity’s tipsy. Or drunk. Or tipsy verging into drunk. She’s been watching Sara practice mixing drinks and it’s possible that at some point watching turned into actual drinking. It’s a good thing that Verdant is closed.

Sara turns around, setting a neon green drink in from of her.

“Appletini?” Felicity guesses, but Sara shakes her head. Felicity takes a cautious sip; it tastes kind of fruity, but tropical, like—“Pineapple!” she exclaims. “Oh my god, that’s so weird. Do I want to know why it’s green?”

Sara laughs, her eyes creasing with the movement. “Probably not,” she says.

Felicity watches her and thinks that she looks relaxed. It’s a good look on her. Sara and Oliver are rarely relaxed. When Felicity thinks about that, about why that is, it makes her—sad. Sad is the wrong word, but it’s the best one she can find at the moment.

(It’s very possible that she’s tipsy.)

When Sara hands her another drink, this one a bright blue, Felicity says, “I’m totally going to regret this in the morning, aren’t I,” because she isn’t quite sure how to say _you’re a good person_ or _I really am glad you’re alive._

Sara grins, a sharp flash of white teeth, and somehow, that’s enough.

* * *

If Felicity has to be at this gala any longer, she’s going to murder somebody. Namely Oliver. And maybe an unsuspecting businessman for good measure, she hasn’t decided yet. Okay, maybe not murder—but somebody’s credit is definitely sinking the longer she stays here and it’s definitely not hers.

(Okay, so Felicity might have a better credit score than she _really_ should have, especially considering how often she shops at Anthropologie, but whatever. She deserves some perks, okay?)

The gala is for some charity—all the Starling City elite are here, trying to look like better people than they probably are—but really it’s just a chance for people to gossip and eat expensive, unappealing appetizers. Does anyone actually like caviar? Felicity would like to know for science.

If another businessman asks her about how Queen Consolidated’s annual numbers are doing while simultaneously trying to look down her dress—which, okay, it does pretty great things for her figure, but _gross_ — Felicity’s going to do something that’ll cause QC stock to plummet. She probably won’t regret it either.

Felicity grits her teeth and wades through the crowd to find Oliver. He’s talking to some hedge fund manager and when he spots her he looks slightly confused. Good. 

“Mr. Queen,” she says, aiming a gracious smile at the hedge fund manager, “can I borrow you for a moment?”

“Of course, Ms. Smoak,” he says, and when they’re a good few feet away, Felicity drops the act.

“I swear to God, Oliver,” she hisses, “if I have to be here any longer, I will go crazy. You know what my plans were for tonight? I was going to watch _The Mindy Project_ and get takeout—and not from the crappy takeout place next to my apartment building, but from the good place that’s usually too far away for me to actually bother to go to! I did not plan on making small talk with businessmen all night. ”

Oliver gets this little crease between his eyebrows—which is actually pretty cute—when she mentions _The Mindy Project_ , because he’s not exactly up to date on television, and looks kind of like he isn’t sure which part of her speech he should address, but he gets the main idea.  

Half an hour later, after they’ve rounded up Digg, all three of them crowd into their usual table at Big Belly Burger. When their food comes Felicity doesn’t even steal any of Oliver or Digg's fries.

She’s a saint, really.

* * *

“What kind of boss would I be if I didn’t give my Executive Assistant a day off every now and then?” Oliver asks. His voice is warm in her ear, even over the phone.

Felicity thinks about arguing. Expense reports multiply at an insane rate and there are undoubtedly at least five more for her to look through this morning. If she gets up now she’ll even have time for a quick stop at Starbucks before she gets to the office.

The sun is just starting to shine through the small gap in her curtains; her sheets are tangled around her legs. Her alarm clock reads 6:43 AM. She can hear Oliver breathing on the other side of the phone.

Felicity makes a decision.

“Alright,” she says, “but if you even think for a second this means you’re allowed to miss that conference call you have at 2:30 today—” She lets him fill in the blank himself, waits for his quiet huff of amusement. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Go back to sleep, Felicity,” Oliver says.

She does.


End file.
